


what the cat dragged in

by lightfighter



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Killing Eve Week 2021, and introducing Carl/Dymok the kleptomaniac cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 15:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightfighter/pseuds/lightfighter
Summary: Villanelle has a cat. He is cool and independent and does his own thing, just like her.Eve also has a cat. He is cool and independent and does his own thing, which Eve can respect.Eve and Villanelle have the same cat. They just don’t know it.(But they’re about to.)
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 26
Kudos: 197
Collections: Killing Eve Week 2021





	what the cat dragged in

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to Killing Eve Week day 4. Sad news this week, obviously, but I fully believe this fandom is too unhinged to dissipate, and in the meantime we're still here and writing! Here's some levity to offset the sads.

Eve is not an animal person. Like, they’re _fine_ , she’s not a sociopath who dissects small woodland creatures in her spare time, but she’s not going out of her way to nurture the four-legged inhabitants of the earth, either; whatever warm fuzzies they allegedly provide are lost on her. The closest she got was Niko and a chicken, and now they’re both out of the picture, and it’s probably for the best. She’s fine with a certain amount of healthy distance between her and the non-opposable thumbed, and they seem to feel the same.

This makes the fact that she has a cat somewhat awkward.

Well, “has” is a loose term. There is a cat, and he is allowed in her apartment, and — after repeated plaintive meows and soulful looks at her instant ramen — there is cheap Tesco dry cat food on hand to feed him when he’s there. And sometimes he sleeps on top of her outstretched legs when she’s watching TV, and maybe she’ll stay on the sofa for twenty minutes longer than intended because he looked so peaceful that perhaps one more episode wouldn’t hurt.

Honestly, she’s not sure how she — well, _they_ , her and the cat — got here. She was going about her business, living her normal, pet-free life, content enough if occasionally hit by the sudden awareness of her bone-deep boredom, and then, one day the cat just...showed up. Just sitting on the windowsill by her front door, all gray and fluffy, apparently asleep. 

Naturally, she ignored it. Like so many other potential problems, it was better left off ignored. 

Unfortunately, the cat did not get the memo. 

As soon as she set her groceries down to unlock the door, there he was, perking up from his clearly fake nap, the little conman, leaping down from the windowsill and winding himself around her ankles, and then, once she got the door open, lightly trotting inside as if this was nothing particularly noteworthy. 

He hastily learned this was not the case when she picked him up and unceremoniously placed him back outside, shutting the door firmly behind him. And that was that.

Or it would’ve been, if he didn’t simply jump back up onto the windowsill and stare at her unblinkingly through the glass, meowing reproachfully whenever she accidentally made eye contact. 

Being shamed by a cat wasn’t part of her schedule for that Tuesday, so she obviously pulled the blinds closed after the fourth bout of eye contact; he eventually gave up and wandered off, and she figured that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He kept coming back. Not every day, but frequently enough that she soon found herself immediately looking to the windowsill as she walked up to see if he was there, waiting, to mentally prepare herself for the psychological mindgames (him) and stubborn resistance (her) about to take place.

She tried a number of things. Nudging him away from the door with her foot. Trying to sneak past when he seemed actually asleep. One particularly desperate day, sinking into a crouch next to him and explaining that he seemed great, for a cat, and that Eve could respect the hustle, but that she’s not an animal person and was not remotely prepared to or, really, interested in taking on the emotional labor of becoming housemate to one. 

He seemed to be listening raptly, if his unblinking stare and pricked up ears were any indication, but, well. Appearances can be deceiving. The message was clearly not received.

The dam finally burst one Sunday about a month after his first visit. It was a nice, sunny day, and the cat hadn’t come by for a few days, so Eve took a chance and opened the front window a few inches before going to retrieve her coffee from the kitchen.

She returned to the sitting room, not five minutes later, mug in hand, to see the cat fast asleep on her sofa, barely cracking open an eye at her approach before settling back into his nap.

The little bastard took the best spot in the sun, too.

Eve stared at him for a full ten seconds, before the fight abruptly left her. If the damn cat wanted in to her shitty apartment so bad, and apparently just to nap, who was she to deny him?

(She did, however, shove him over a bit to get some of the aforementioned sun, ignoring his disgruntled meow.)

(And if, thirty minutes into the episode, he curled onto her lap, apparently indifferent to the way her whole body stiffened before slowly, _slowly_ relaxing, well, neither of them mention it.)

Anyway, he’s a regular guest now. (He does _not_ live here. Much.) Eve calls him Carl.

(She doesn’t _name_ him Carl. It’s merely what she refers to him in her head. And out loud. But it’s not a name; she didn’t _name_ him. She’s not in the business of adopting and naming animals. Obviously not. As for the na— that is, reference term, it's a long story. But suffice it to say when he’s not sleeping on the sofa or on her, he’s sitting atop the tower of old psych textbooks from her school days that never quite made it into a bookshelf, and between that and the emotional manipulation, Carl seemed fitting.)

Carl is...not terrible. As animals go. For one thing, he’s a cat, and that already wins him points in Eve’s eyes. Cats are independent. Do what they want and go where they please (as Eve has learned in detail). Were Carl a dog, this story would never have gotten off the ground. All that walking and playing and attention — no way.

And he’s sort of...cute. If Eve found animals cute, that is. But maybe he would be the sort if she did. He’s dark grey, and clearly inquisitive, and very definitely occasionally watches whatever she has on TV with her — not that she’s ever caught him up, after one or two glasses of wine, so that he knows the background of the show, of course not. 

Eve also respects the way that he mostly seems to do what he wants. Even if part of that seems to be letting himself into her home. Any individual that knows their own mind and exercises their agency as they please is already on their way to her good books, barring them pissing her off.

Which comes to the sticking point: Carl is a kleptomaniac.

Or, at least, Eve thinks he is. 

It took her a bit to form this suspicion. And frankly, she’s still not sure if she’s just anthropomorphizing this random animal to mask what is really boring old run-of-the-mill insanity. 

But the evidence is compelling. It started out small. Little items, hardly worth the notice. A keychain, sitting on the end table. An empty lighter. One of her cheap takeout chopsticks. A couple of her socks. All easily written off — who even knows where those things disappear to?

Then her cigarettes started going missing. 

This, Eve could not ignore. 

Look, it’s not like she’s smoking a pack a day, and she stopped for a while since Niko hated it but they just really help take the edge off and everyone has a vice or two, right?

And cigarettes are expensive, dammit. 

Eve can’t prove that it’s Carl. She’s never caught him in the act, and the one time she picked him up after an entire pack went missing, and held him up at eye level, asking very calmly if he knew anything about its disappearance or current whereabouts, he just looked back before blinking slowly a few times and starting to purr.

So that avenue of inquiry doesn’t seem likely to produce results any time soon.

But Eve knows it’s him. Because, well, frankly, he’s easily the most frequent visitor to her place — she usually goes to Bill’s so she can see the kid and because he’s a much better cook than her, and pretty much only sees Elena and Kenny for drinks. 

So unless she’s just experiencing memory loss to slow carbon monoxide poisoning — an actual possibility that had her replacing the long dead batteries in her CO monitors — it’s the damn cat.

Who isn’t giving anything up.

But, well, there’s one more piece of evidence that is pretty damning.

Carl also brings things back to _her_.

And, um, these things are, on average, much nicer than the worthless trinkets he’s been lifting from her place (minus, obviously, the cigs). 

It’s quite a variety of things, too. One lone earring that Eve is pretty sure is real gold; a delicate bracelet a few days later. A — thankfully closed — short, but wickedly sharp pocket knife. A little sample vial of rather lovely perfume. 

One time, he jumped through the window, and strolled right up to her before dropping an entire piece of salmon sushi at her feet. He looked down at it, and back up at her. The implication was obvious.

(Eve looked it up after. Turns out cats “hunt” and bring things to humans who they view either as their children who need to be provided for, or as large, strange gangly cats who are very bad at hunting and beyond all teaching, and thus need to be helped along.

She tries not to dwell on the fact that Carl apparently finds her so incompetent he’s taken to stealing some poor person’s dinner from under them.)

So Carl is performing his little vanishing act on multiple parties, the little thief. 

(Eve has thought about posting a flyer offering to return her ill-gotten gains, but she’s a little worried about what might happen to Carl, and also she’s a bit lazy, and also she’s started using the very nice smelling perfume so returning an empty tube might be a bit awkward. Still, she’s set the jewelry and weapons aside for eventual return. Whenever that might be.)

Eve can only hope that whatever probable woman Carl is straight up stealing from isn’t too pissed. 

And that Carl isn’t taking whatever he takes from Eve back to _her_. Talk about a poor trade. 

(But she still wants her cigarettes back.)

**

Villanelle is not an animal person. They are annoying, and needy, and dirty, and take far more than they give, and do not even say thank you. She’d much prefer to continue lavishing her attention and means on an appropriately appreciative party — that is, of course, herself. 

The luxuries she can now afford — the jewelry, the designer clothing, the fine art and foods — she knows what it took to get to them, and what it was like before them. A world apart from them, really.

It is this last fact that makes getting rid of the cat so damn tricky.

She never intended to keep him around. It’s just...he was so scrawny, that time he first showed up. And dirty to boot, his gray fur matted and dull. Just generally a pathetic sight. 

But also, extremely loud. She’d just finished parking her (vintage, mint condition) Benz in the parking garage of her apartment complex — in the spot reserved for penthouse units, obviously — when the cat ran out from under another car and just started _screaming_. Well, meowing, but he was apparently intent on making himself heard. 

At first, Villanelle just ignored him. Because, hello, not an animal person. But then he ran up to her, still meowing his head off. And then she got a good look at him, and how underfed he was, and registered how all-around pitiful his meows were, and something extremely strange happened. Her heart...ached?

Yes, there was a definite ache in her general chest area. She did not think she was having a heart attack, so this would have to be...an emotion. Pity? Was she feeling pity?

For a _cat?_

She pondered this as she collected her (numerous) shopping bags from the trunk and started making her way to her apartment, vaguely aware of the cat scampering after her. When she paused to wait for the elevator, he sat at her feet, staring up at her with wide, unblinking eyes.

Villanelle looked back down at him. She could, she realized — with another pang, this was very concerning — see his ribs. “Cat.” He kept staring. “Are you...manipulating me?”

He meowed. Loudly.

Hmm. Results inconclusive.

Then he followed her into the elevator. 

It would have been easy enough to nudge (or not so gently push) him out, the doors sliding shut behind him and the story ending there, but...she didn’t. Or couldn’t. 

Whichever. 

When they reached the door of her apartment, she set down her shopping, and then they just looked at each other for a while.

Villanelle was the one to break the standoff. “You should know that I don’t really like animals. They are annoying and dirty.”

He meowed. 

“Well, you are. Dirty, I mean.”

He meowed again, a definite sense of reproach in the sound. 

“Yes, yes, I know it is not your fault.”

They subsided into silence again. His gaze turned wide and plaintive, suddenly reminding her of that orange cat from Shrek, and she gritted her teeth. In her chest, there was an ache. Again!

Finally, she heaved an enormous sigh, shooting a glare at the hallway ceiling before looking back down at the cat. “Okay. One night, alright?”

He meowed. 

She pointed at him. “I mean it. _One_.”

Then she gathered her shopping and unlocked the door, pushing it open so that he could slowly, cautiously creep his way inside and start to take a look around.

He stayed for more than one night. A lot more than one night.

At first, she quickly determined he would need a bath — one night or no, he was not going to get her furniture dirty and/or flea-ridden. A YouTube tutorial and forty traumatic minutes later, he was damp and resentful, but clean. 

He cheered up remarkably quickly when she fed him some rather nice rotisserie chicken she had in the fridge, though, and then it was just natural to do some online browsing for the highest quality, gourmet wet cat food she could find, and soon enough an order was placed. 

Once that was done, she looked up to see him fast asleep on her sofa, directly on top of her soft throw blanket (thank god she bathed him _first_ ). Seeing him like that, still so small and scrawny...to her horror, there was yet another feeling in what she assumed was her heart. How many of these would she be forced to endure?!

And then it hit her. She was... _relating_ to this cat. Yes, she, Villanelle, was looking at this animal and feeling...empathy. 

God, she’d gotten soft. 

But that’s what was happening. Like it or not, she knew all too well what it felt like to, more than anything, want somewhere to belong and someone to take care of you. The horrible deep yearning of it, the emptiness of not having it, of cold rejection.

So, yeah, maybe she’s just in her feelings and this cat is playing her like a fiddle and really just wants more chicken, but well...she’s hardly one to judge. 

She’d do the same. ( _Has_ done the same.)

So he stays. He eases up over time, and starts to, eventually, sit on her lap whenever she watches movies. His ribs are no longer so easily countable; her chest pangs continue. (Especially when his little paws come up to cover his face when he’s asleep). He starts to purr. 

(Once, when she catches a rare, nasty cold — even _her_ finely-tuned machine of a body encounters a blip now and then — he stays by her side for the entire two days she’s in bed, purring all the while and not even leaving when she accidentally sneezes on him. The idea of loyalty is foreign to her, and yet. Chest aches.) 

She calls him Dymok — his gray fur gets a nice gleam to it, with time, and with all his coming and goings and absences and reappearances the Russian for “puff of smoke” seems fitting. 

And also, all the cigarettes. 

Villanelle does not smoke. Actually, she finds smoking disgusting, a nasty habit. 

Dymok has not seemed to get the message. From the beginning, he’s been in and out, free to wander as he pleases; Villanelle is hardly going to be the one to cage him. He is an independent soul like her, and she respects his privacy and autonomy as he does hers. But lately, in the last few months, he’s started to bring back...things. Presents? If they can even be called that.

They are all small things of no consequence, keychains and socks. (The latter she throws away with a grimace, holding them with tongs.) What he expects her to do with these items, she has no idea.

The cigarettes, though — those are truly befuddling. Where is he going that he is encountering such a steady supply of cancer sticks?

(Just in case, she delivers a sermon on the dangers of smoking, how it stains one's teeth and sinks into one’s furniture and clothing and hair and every belonging, and oh yeah, is unhealthy, or whatever, too. He doesn’t seem to listen very closely, the little asshole.)

Anyway, she is now the dubious owner of several packs’ worth of cigarettes, with no idea what to do with them. She would toss them, as she did the socks, but she has the vague awareness that he is taking them from someone. What else could he be doing? But really, it is none of her concern. He may be a little thief, but again, this is hardly the household for judging. Not for _that_.

Or it wouldn’t be, were Dymok not liberating things from _her_. She barely notices, at first — her jewelry collection is extensive, and if an odd earring or bracelet goes missing it doesn't capture her attention. 

But then her favorite penknife disappears. And suddenly it is not so amusing. Especially when Dymok, no longer scrawny or dirty or pitiful, hardly blinks at her interrogation. This is what happens when you get fed a nonstop supply of cat food more expensive than what most people eat.

But it is obviously him. No one else has been to her apartment, aside from the occasional woman she picks up at a bar, and she usually prefers they don’t stay the night. She likes her space, on her own terms. (This is fine, to be clear. She is really okay with this. Dymok is a very good movie watching companion.)

But she wants her knife back. And she doesn’t want any other of her favorite pieces to go missing. So, despite her reluctance — it is their mutual loose morals that bind them together, after all — she starts to keep a closer eye on Dymok. Not to do anything, exactly. Not really. 

Just to...monitor. 

And thus, one day, is there to catch him in the act of jumping up to the open window, something in his mouth.

She stops short. The little bastard has her favorite hairpin. 

“ _Dymok!_ ”

He’s off in a flash. She’s in a bathrobe, but that doesn’t stop her from stuffing her feet into tennis shoes and giving chase. 

Her cat may be a thief, but she’ll be damned if he’s going to steal from _her_.

**

Eve is leaning against the wall outside her apartment, finishing the last of a (previously hidden from Carl) cigarette, when, from the opposite corner of the hallway, none other than Carl himself comes hurtling, his little legs a blur. Seeing her, his pace quickens even more, and as he nears, Eve can make out that he’s carrying something in his mouth. Some sort of metal thing. Oh god. She hastily stubs out the cigarette and crouches to meet him; as he jumps into arms, she confirms that, yep, he’s definitely holding what appears to be...some sort of hairpin? Maybe? She notices, with a flash of warm embarrassment, that the design at the top features two women locked in an embrace. A rather intimate one. 

Just as she’s processing this, and wondering just where the hell her thief cat stole this from and what he’s been getting himself into — the cat in question purring against her shoulder, no doubt in smug satisfaction as his latest heist — a sudden yell breaks her thoughts. 

“Dymok! Dymok! Get back here, you little shit!”

Eve looks up to see a tall blonde woman in a silk bathrobe, bare feet stuffed into tennis shoes, running towards them. She blinks. The woman is, well, quite attractive. Even if she looks furious, her sharp features and very definite anger apparent as she approaches, stomping up to just a few feet from Eve.

“Why are you holding my cat?”

Eve’s appreciative train of thought vanishes. “Um, this is my cat.”

“Um, _no_ , that is my cat.” The woman’s eyes flicker over Eve, lingering for just a moment. “And he does not like strangers.”

Eve stiffens. “Okayyy, not sure why you think you know things about him.” Her arms tighten just a bit around Carl, who helpfully responds by digging his claws into her shoulder in protest. “And yeah, no, this is definitely not your cat. His name is Carl.”

The blonde stops short, face screwing up in perplexed disgust. “ _Carl?_ ”

“Yeah, after Carl Jung, the psychol— actually, why am I explaining this? It’s none of your business.” Eve stands, settling Carl against her shoulder.

“I think you’ll find that it is,” the woman says coolly, arms crossed, “Because he is not Carl, he is Dymok, and he is _mine_.”

Eve opens her mouth to reply, but is cut off by the sudden movement of the woman, as she takes a quick step to Eve. Eve instinctively stiffens, taking a step back, but the woman just reaches to Carl’s mouth and pulls free — with some effort, Carl is clearly not keen on cooperating — the hairpin. She raises her eyebrows, waving the pin. “And so is this. He’s constantly taking my things and carrying them off to god knows where, the criminal.”

Eve stops short. _This_ is the victim of Carl’s constant theft? She takes a closer look at the clearly expensive silk bathrobe, the discreet gold ring on the woman’s thumb and the necklaces around her long neck. Oh god, yes, this could track. Only a cleared throat has her eyes shooting up to meet the woman’s gaze, and feels herself redden, realizing she’s been staring. (Dammit.) The woman looks amused. “Unless... _you_ know something about this?”

Ah, fuck. Well, she was intending to return those things eventually… “Um. Did you lose a bracelet? And, possibly, um...a knife?”

The woman laughs aloud, suddenly delighted. “So you are the recipient of Dymok’s little crimes!”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Feeling the need to defend herself, and maybe also Carl, she adds, “I think he thinks he’s...helping me? Anyway, I don’t know how to make him stop. I can’t really make him not do _anything_ , actually.”

The woman is nodding. “I understand. He brings me things too. But I don’t know if they’re meant to help me — what am I supposed to do with cigarettes?”

“He’s taking my cigarettes to _you_?!” Eve blurts this out without thought, but real betrayal and vindication are washing over her — she’s pissed but also relieved to not be insane — and holds Carl up so that she can stare him down. “You asshole!”

Carl does not seem concerned about being found out, or, for that matter, particularly racked with guilt; the woman, meanwhile, is laughing again. “Dymok, you’ve been very busy!”

Irritated now, both at this development, and at the woman’s amusement at just about everything happening, Eve snaps, “What is a ‘dymok’? His name is _Carl_.”

The woman sobers, though the corners of her mouth are still quirked up. “It means, um, a little puff of smoke. Because he’s gray, but also because of, well…” Her eyes fall on the stubbed out cigarette by Eve’s feet, “You know. It seemed fitting.”

Eve sighs, enormously put out, as the woman dissolves into snorted laughter again; at the sound, Carl starts purring, _again_. (He really is an asshole.) “Alright, well, if you’re done, I’ll get your stuff, and then you can, you know…” (She figures the “get lost” comes through clear enough.)

But at this, the woman finally stops laughing, raising her hands. “Okay, okay, I’m done. Sorry, but — it _is_ funny. And, anyway, he is trying to help you. It’s a filthy habit, you know.”

“Good to know,” Eve replies shortly, at this point not even fazed by the woman’s apparent lack of any filter whatsoever. “Look, so are you saying this is your cat or something? He just started showing up at my place one day a few months ago.”

“Um, well, I think he is? He’s been around for a year, maybe. But he comes and goes a lot.” 

Eve’s heart sinks. So Carl _was_ this woman’s cat first. “Oh.”

The woman pauses at Eve’s tone, and when she speaks again, her voice is more cautious. “Hey, but, look, I’m not one to lock up a free spirit. If he comes and hangs out with you, that’s fine by me.” She looks Eve up and down, her tone changing just a bit. “He clearly is a good judge of character.”

“Right,” Eve says drily. “Let’s go with that.”

They stare at each other for a moment. 

Finally Eve shakes her head, clearing her throat. “Um. Right. Your stuff. Yes.”

“Yes,” the woman replies, amused again. “My stuff.”

“Including your, um...knife.”

“My knife,” the woman confirms solemnly, offering exactly zero of the additional detail on that item Eve was hoping for. “It is a very nice one, too.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s in my apartment. Which is right here. So I’ll just...go get it.” Eve takes a step back, only for Carl to wriggle uncomfortably against her, meowing in protest and trying to get down. 

The woman smoothly steps up. “I’ll take him, before he attempts to commit another crime.” Before Eve can reply, she’s reaching in, taking the cat into her arms; for just a moment, they are in each other’s space. Eve feels herself freeze, and the woman pauses, inhaling. “Wait. Are you...wearing my perfume?!”

Oh god. Mortification washes over Eve. She _knew_ she was getting a little too free with that damn sampler, but it just smelled too good. (And maybe she got a little illicit thrill from using something technically not her own.) Abort, abort, abort. “Um—”

The woman grins, newly rakish. “Well. You are certainly welcome to it. You wear it _very_ well.”

Eve just shakes her head, finally getting the door open and stepping back over the threshold. 

“Wait — what’s your name? I’m Villanelle.”

“Eve,” Eve says, and slams the door shut.

  
  


**

Two days later, after Eve gave Villanelle her things back through the barely-opened window, hardly able to look at her, Carl (Dymok?) comes to Eve’s apartment, letting himself in through the window with practiced motions. 

Eve watches as he trots up to her and jumps up onto the sofa, only then dropping what he’s carrying. 

Eve stares down at the cigarette pack sitting there on the cushion. One of _her_ cigarette packs. 

For a moment, all she feels is mortification. Again. Like she needs any further reminders about that.

She sighs and picks it up with a frown. It’s light. Way too light. She opens it, and stares. The pack is next to empty, a single lone cigarette tucked in the corner. She shoots a look at Carl, who ignores her completely, too absorbed in grooming his paws, before rolling her eyes. 

May as well enjoy what she can, though. She pulls out the cigarette — and pauses. There’s a piece of paper rolled around it. She shoots another glance at Carl before unwinding the note, to read:

_Sorry to get your hopes up. I wanted to make sure you would open it. I did leave you one, though! I hope you’re not upset or anything — Dymok is free to go wherever, but especially to your place. And if you’re not — maybe you me and Dymok could hang out sometime? I have more samplers of that scent, all yours. It suits you._

_—Villanelle._

_PS: You should stop smoking._

Eve stares at this note for some time, aware of the blood rushing in her ears. She feels a bit warm. 

After a moment, she places the cigarette in her mouth and lights it, smoking it all the way down to the filter.

  
  


**

Carl (Dymok is fine, too) is not a people cat. Really, he isn’t. They’re odd and furless and loud and can’t see in the dark or hear _anything_ , and frankly he tries to avoid them as much as possible. And still does. It’s just that the blonde one and the curly haired one need him — he really thinks they might not survive the winter, or actually any season at all, if he does not intervene. 

(Sure, he was a _bit_ peckish that day in the parking garage when he stumbled across the blonde one climbing out of the very nice Benz, but he would’ve been fine. He is a cat, for crying out loud. The blonde one, on the other hand, had a great deal of excess chicken, and clearly needed someone to watch her movies with her, so really, it was a win-win. As for the curly haired one...she seemed to subsist entirely on instant ramen and cigarettes. He _had_ to step in.)

And so he does what he must. Frankly, he is a saint. It takes them some time to appreciate his philanthropy, but they both come around, and for a while things are going swimmingly, with his preferred dry food and wet food available at his two residences, and his humans, despite their generally slow learning abilities, picking up on exactly where behind his ears he likes being scratched.

It does take Carl some time to grow accustomed, then, to encountering _both_ of his humans in either of his apartments, _together_ — sometimes in the same bed, at that. (And he is still getting over the insult of the blonde one throwing a balled up shirt at him when he walked in on them once, as if to suggest that he wasn’t welcome. Him! Not welcome! It beggars belief. At least hearing the curly haired one scold her after was a bit mollifying.)

Even harder to come to terms with is the slowly dwindling supply of cigarettes at his disposal to transport. Still, this blow is softened by the realization that providing for the two of them, incompetent as they are, is made much easier when they’re in the same place, and between that and the new availability of dry and wet cat food in either home, and two sets of hands to give him scratches while he watches TV, he decides he can come to accept this development after all.

The sacrifices we make for the ones we love.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> May we all aspire to be Carls and know our worth. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> @lightfighterfic on twitter


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